Thrown into Perdition
by On the road so far
Summary: What happened to Dean while he was in hell. Rating it M because, well, it's hell. Violence, blood, gore, torture, language, you get the picture. Hope you enjoy this darker side to Dean. :)
1. The Road to Hell

**The Road to Hell Is Paved with Good Intentions**

Webs. Endless webs of thick, heavy chains stretched before him, behind him, into him. Chains infinitely intersecting into the nothingness around him. The air was an eerie green as constant spatterings of blinding lightening splashed around him and thunder rolled with an ear-shattering force. His arms and legs were bound, but massive hooks had been torn through his right shoulder and left abdomen. He hadn't even felt them pierce his skin, but he sure as hell felt them now and he cried out in pain. "HELP!" he yelled out to no avail. "HELP!" he tried again. Oh God I'm in hell, he thought as a vague notion of what he had done one year ago came back to him. Panic swept over him with a force that shook his very being. "No, no, NO!" Desparation overtook him. "Somebody help me!" But there was no answer. He cried out for the one person he thought could save him from this agony. "Sam!" he called out. Nothing answered but the echo of his cry and the constant crash of thunder. "SAM!"

By now he was having a full-blown panic attack. His breathing shallowed as his heart beat furiously in his chest. He pulled against his restraints, and an unrelenting fire roared through him at his side and shoulder. He cried out in pain again. "SAM!" he called again. Why hadn't he come? Dean always rushed to his brother when he cried out for him. "SAM!" he continued to yell, each time more desparate, each time sending shockwaves of fiery pain through his body. Hours passed, and still he tried until his voice gave out on him and he was left parched and alone. His breathing was labored. Although the shackles on his limbs had teeth that bit through his flesh, the two hooks seeming to endlessly dig into him held most of his weight. More time passed, how long he couldn't know. Finally he forced himself to calm down as much as his aching and scorching body would allow him. God, how could he feel such intense, sharp pain and yet be mind-numbingly achy at the same time? _Hell,_ he realized again. How had he gotten there? He couldn't remember, and the constant, throbbing, piercing pain made it difficult to think. He shut his eyes in an attempt to concentrate. Sam. Dead. _Oh, fuck, oh God. Sam's dead and I can't fix it._ He opened his eyes suddenly. No, that was wrong. He'd made a deal, exchanged his own life for his little brother's. Suddenly, the terrifying growl and ferocious bark of massive dogs surrounded him. He jumped in fear, sending a new, somehow distinctly different wave of agony crashing through his broken body. He gritted his teeth and rode out the wave until it settled back to the constant throb. Hellhounds. He had to force himself to remember anything but pain.

Demons. There had been demons when the hellhound had dug his claws into him during his final moments on Earth. But where were they now? This was hell, wasn't it? Demon-central? He looked around him fearfully, trying to ignore his pain. Perhaps he should be thankful that he was suffering alone for now. After all, eternity awaited him.

"Sic him, boy," the taunt of Lilith echoed around him. The last words he had heard on Earth were that of a demon.

A single tear finally broke away from the corner of his eye. He'd left Sam. Oh God, how could I do that? His breath caught as he recalled more. Sam had been there. Sam had watched him be shredded in front of him. Dean hadn't heard Sam's anguish and pleas that had been drowned out by the vicious growls of the hellhound. Maybe he should be thankful for that. He didn't think he could bare to hear the cry of his little brother.

He gasped as the memory slammed into him again with a weighty realization. Lilith had been there. What had she done to Sam once Dean was dead? _Fuck, no don't let him be dead. Don't let him be dead._ He whipped around again frantically. _Don't let him be here at least._ But still there was nothing but the chains and the thundering and lightening and Dean. And for the first time, Dean actually saw, rather than felt, the state of his body. His light grey t-shirt was torn where the hooks sank into his body and was stained a dark, deep red. He couldn't see the wound on his shoulder, but the one at his side was still bleeding, begging for medical attention, for release from the strain put on it. The bottoms of his jeans were ripped where the shackles at his ankles had been torn into him. He looked up at his arms, his wrists bleeding profusely. He whimpered and begged for the sweet bliss of unconsciousness, but it wouldn't come. It, too, had abandoned Dean, along with Sam, his dad, everything. "Sam!" he called once more, the last hope of a desparate man. So at least Sam had been spared from hell. But how could he be sure? How big was this place? There could be infinite fields of this goddamn green nothingness, and Sam could be tucked in another corner of it, away from Dean. His little brother was, after all, the Ultimate Prize for Lilith. There was nothing Dean could do though. He could have prayed, but would the heavens he didn't even believe in listen to the pleas of the damned? So he wept, even though his throat was still dry and aching for water, even though as he cried it shot new shivers of pain down Dean's spine, up his arms, and down his legs with each shake of his body, each gasp for breath. Dean was completely and utterly alone.

Some time had past before he took ahold of himself again, how long he couldn't know. But there was nothing more to think about, nothing more that could take his mind off the ravaging pain. God was he hungry. He'd felt something similar before a couple of times when the food had run low while his dad had left him and Sam with far too little money. On these far-too-often occasions Dean had been forced to sell himself so he and Sammy could eat. He shuddered involuntary at the memory, and his body shot back with a vengeance. His hunger bit and knawed at him with it's greedy teeth. The longest he had gone without food was three days. This hunger pang felt ten times worse though, on top of an unquenchable thirst that was starting to drive Dean insane. Had it been a full week since he'd been in hell? He supposed it could have, but time seemed different somehow down here.

Again there was nothing Dean could do but endure the ever-building and unceasing pain. His wounds still bled and throbbed, his throat scratched and his stomach seemed to be tearing itself apart. How his body was still being held up by bunches of skin was beyond him. He wished it would all just fall away. Every moment was pain, every minute that passed doubled it. By this point Dean was too exhausted to do anything but moan and whimper softly.

Another week passed.

And then another.

Something dark, unseen by Dean, had been watching with building pleasure the entire time, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. And that moment was about to come.

Dean's ears endlessly rang from the unceasing crash of thunder, his eyes, stripped of the pleasure of sleep, became weak and his vision spotty from the constant flashes surrounding him. His body was numb, but pain still wouldn't release it's firm grasp on him.

He was disgusted with himself. _Only been in hell a few weeks_ , he thought, _and I'm already broken_.

A voice startled Dean out of his death-like state. "Oh, Dean, honey," the slow, silky, voice drawled, seemingly able to read Dean's thoughts, "You haven't even begun to break."


	2. Hellraiser

**Hellraiser**

Dean's walls immediately went up. It was probably too late, but he'd be damned if someone saw him that vulnerable while he was aware of it. He turned, trying to find the source of the voice, biting his lower lip to keep from wincing.

" _Finally_ someone to talk to," he said, putting on a show of bravado for the voice. "Wait, unless you're Pinhead. 'Cause if you're Pinhead, I'm gonna have to take a hard pass on that one."

"Ah, yes, Pinhead," said the voice slowly, still not showing itself. "Some of my, ah, colleagues told me about him." He chuckled darkly. "I'm who Pinhead aspires to be when he grows up."

A figure appeared at Dean's side, tall and lanky with hooded eyelids that covered eyes that seemed to pierce his soul. He was grinning devilishly, taking a good, long look at the subject before him. "Ah, how rude of me," he said snapping his fingers. The scenery around them had changed suddenly. Dean was slammed onto a hard wooden table, the hooks removed from his sides, the wounds suddenly healed up. His arms and legs were still bound, but the shackles had lost their teeth. Everything was complete darkness, save for Dean and his captor on which a bright spotlight shown.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the man _(No, demon,_ Dean corrected himself) continued. "Alastair. Grand Inquisiter of Hell some call me. Others just call me a twisted son of a bitch," he mused. He stuck out his hand mockingly for Dean to shake. "Sorry, it never gets old," he sneered as Dean rolled his eyes.

"Pleasure's all yours, I'm sure," was Dean's retort.

"Now, now, Dean," he drawled, drawing a knife up and letting it scrape the surface of Dean's skin, but not enough to draw blood. "Don't be rude. Introduce yourself. Others are watching, you know."

Dean looked around and still saw nothing but black, but as if on cue moans and screams and cries of agony surrounded him. Hundreds, maybe thousands of voices all crying out at once. He gasped at the horror of it.

Alastair's blade reminded him of the question he'd been asked as it dug in lightly at his shoulder.

"Um. Hi. I'm Dean," he said awkwardly, trying to avoid looking towards Alastair. "Winchester. I'm an Aquarius, and I've probably sent a few, well, a lot, of you back down here, so, uh," he shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, I'm not sorry 'cause you evil bastards had it coming."

"I know you're new here Dean," Alastair tutted, "But we don't use the 'evil' word around here. Down here, in the deepest pits of hell, there is only flesh."

Dean paused to reflect, his nose crinkling up. "Oh my God, you are Pinhead."

"Hm," he snickered, inches away from Dean's face, still caressing his chest with the blade. "Such a smart-ass. That's what I like about you, Dean. You'll make an excellent pupil."

"What are you talking about?" asked Dean as he tried to squirm away from the knife.

"I want you," he explained, pointing the knife at his heart, "to show them," he pointed towards the nothingness and hellish screams, "a thing or two about pain and suffering. Hm?"

Dean tried to hide the horror that crept along his face as he realized the implications Alastair was implying. He regained composure, putting on his best Dean Winchester bad-ass face. "Why don't you," he said, leaning closer to Alastair's face, "take that knife, and stick it where the sun shines."

Alastair just grinned. "I didn't expect you to accept the first time. That would have been," he sucked air in through his teeth, "disappointing." He drew up his knife again, this time over Dean's collarbone. "No, I have _so_ much to teach you before that moment comes."

Then it began.


	3. Bolgia Ten

**Bolgia Ten**

Alastair dragged into Dean's collarbone with the blade, carving deeper the louder Dean cried out.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Dean, did I hurt you?" he asked in mock sympathy, inches away from his face.

Dean glared at him hatefully. "Fuck off," he grunted.

"Hmm," Alastair mused slowly. "Well, I mean, I could, but I'm just not that type of demon. You should be so lucky. Now," he continued his work, this time carving along Dean's sternum, "I asked you if this hurts, and I expect an answer."

This was ridiculous. _Of course it fucking hurts, asshat,_ he thought. "Give me the knife and I'll show you myself." Alastair smiled. Dean realized what he said and quickly added on, "And no, that's not me accepting your offer."

"I certainly hope not," he replied, moving along to scrape Dean's ribs, "but you have yet to answer me."

Dean was nothing if not stubborn. There was no way in hell (goddamn, that phrase had actual meaning now), that Dean would give in to Alastair's taunts. "No," he gritted through his teeth.

Alastair smacked his lips in admonition, taking a step back and pulling the blade away. Dean gasped at the release. Alastair cranked a lever on the side of the rack so Dean was vertical now. Then a hand was rested on the wood next to Dean's face. "Son, I know you're new here and all," he gazed up and down Dean's body, an evil glint under his hooded eye lids, "but we do have rules here in hell. Or, at least, those I, ah, mentor do. I'm not uncouth like those demons that slut their way around up top. My number one rule is: Don't. Lie." His voice went unnaturally deep on those words. He brought his blade up to caress Dean's ribs, shaking his head. "You haven't been on my rack nearly long enough to even begin to feel pleasure instead of pain. So. I'll ask again. And there will be consequences if you lie, Dean, don't say I didn't warn you." He stabbed suddenly straight into Dean's arm. Dean cried out, begging his body not to react and make it worse to no avail. Over his shouts of pain, Alastair quietly asked again, his eyes wide with false concern, "Does this hurt, Dean?"

Dean leaned his head back and shut his eyes as he pushed through the pain. _Fuck, this is bad. I'm so fucked._ But still he wouldn't give in. He lifted his head up defiantly. "No."

Alastair sighed in disappointment, cruelly twisting the blade as he yanked it out of Dean's arm. Dean bit his lip hard to keep from crying out again and groaned, tasting the blood his effort cost him.

"You ever read The Divine Comedy, Dean?"

Dean whipped his head towards Alastair at the oddity of the question. "What? No. Well, I started to. Never could get past Hell, though. Pretty ironic, come to think of it," he joked darkly.

"Hm," snickered Alastair. "Well, Dante got a few things right. Not the geography, obviously," he said, taking in his surroundings. He paced in front of Dean. "To his credit, though, he got the general idea of some things. People like you, Dean? Liars? Well, Dante says in his little book that they're inflicted with all sorts of diseases and sores that tear the body apart." He shook his head, the corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. "Just not my style. I prefer to be a little more... hands on."

Alastair took a few steps back shrugging, the knife hanging lazily in his hand. "I didn't want to do this to you so soon, Dean." He shook his knife as though scolding him. "But, like father, like son, you're just too damn stubborn. Just remember, Dean, you did this to yourself. All those cries and tears and shouts you hear all around? They've been waiting to get a piece of the famous Dean Winchester." Alastair continued to step back, nearly fading into the darkness. "And you just gave them permission."

Dean's eyes widened in fear. All around him was suddenly silent, but Dean could feel, could _taste_ the hunger of the demons surrounding him.

He flinched away as something, no, _someone_ , scratched his cheek. Another hand clawed his arm. He felt yet another rip into his side with brute force as he stifled a scream. Hands were coming from everywhere, ripping him apart, clawing into his skin, pushing and pulling from every direction, all eager for a piece of Dean Winchester. He couldn't hold back the anguished scream that forced it's way out of his still hoarse throat. And still they tore at him, ripping flesh from muscle, muscle from bone. There was nothing left of Dean to grasp at, but they grabbed greedily anyway. By some sort of twisted magic, his flesh regrew itself so their assault could continue. No more noise issued from Dean's throat, unable to breath, unable to see where the hands where coming from or who they were attached to, unable to do anything but watch in horror as his body mercilessly rejuvenated and the hands took it away from him. There was no sound but the shredding if his own flesh. He wished his body would just go into shock, refuse to send any more pain signals to his brain and let numbness wash over, but to no avail. It went on and on, seemingly endless. And then suddenly, as quickly as it had started, the hands were gone again, leaving him partially whole, but with massive gashes in his torso and limbs.

"Did that hurt, Dean?" Alastair was by his side again, a cruel smile on his face as he inspected the work of his pupils.

Dean could only attempt to regain his breath in response.

Alastair leaned to his ear, whispering," I can make it all go away, you'll never feel pain again, if you say yes to me."

Dean let out a sob, knowing what was coming when he refused.

"It doesn't have to be like this. With time, you'll learn to even enjoy giving pain to others. We've all earned our punishment down here, you're just giving them what they deserve."

Dean glared into his eyes, steadying himself. "Stick it where the sun shines."

Alastair grinned, then quickly spun around as the hands began their feast once more.


	4. Hell Is Yourself

**Hell Is Yourself**

 _Ludwig Wittgenstein_

The hands had finally - _finally_ \- retreated, and Dean was once again alone. As before, they'd left him a bloody mess, open wounds covering his body. That torment was over, but this new one, a much more subtle, drawn out one, had begun. Different from when he'd first arrived in hell, and his wounds had simply kept bleeding, now the sores over his body were allowed to fester. His throat was still parched, having never been quenched, his stomach still ached, having never been filled. He was so exhausted he felt as though, even if by some miracles his shackles were released and he'd been told he'd gotten a free ticket out of hell, he wouldn't have had the energy to. His head hung loosely on his shoulder, his eyes closed, not daring to look down at the greenish-yellow fluid leaking from his wounds. To top it all of, apparently fucking fevers were a thing in hell, because his body was burning up, sweat pouring down his face. He'd felt this hot - like, go to the hospital hot - once before as a teenager, when he'd let a fever get out of control to avoid feeling like a needy, whining kid. His temperature had been 106 then, and it had scared the crap out of Sam to see his brother lying so helpless, burning up in a hospital bed, but this was hotter.

"Sam," he wept, grateful for time away from Alastair and the others so he could release his emotions. "Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry." If his brother had seen him like _this_ , though, if he could even begin to imagine the agony Dean had been through in such a short amount of time, his heart would have shattered into a million pieces.

God, Dean had been so hard on the kid since he'd left for Stanford, accusing him of abandoning his family, only thinking of his own happiness. Sam was abandoning a pretty shitty family, though. He deserved better than an absent father, certainly better than a selfish brother who constantly leaned on him to support his own flaws. Sam was meant for better things. Sam was meant to have a normal life, with a wife and kids. To not fall asleep wondering if he'd be attacked in the middle of the night by some God-forsaken creature. Sam had demon blood coarsing through his veins, but he was good with a capital "G", no matter how much the demon blood part scared Dean. But Dean was selfish, his character being defined around Sam since he was four. He lived through Sam because Dean was nothing, no one. Just another weapon in his father's arsenal. Another tool to be used and discarded. When had the self-loathing started? Perhaps when he was six, Dean figured, and his brain had developed enough to think such thoughts. It'd taken his father two years to break him. He wondered passively how long it'd take Alastair.

 _Don't_ , another part of him argued. _Stay strong for Sam._

 _But why? He isn't here_ , he argued back, his brow furrowed, eyes still closed.

 _Everything you've ever done, you've done for Sam. Don't stop now. Don't let them win. Don't let them see you weak. Let Sam be your strength._

He breathed out slowly, knowing full well not giving in only meant more torture. _I can take it_ , he convinced himself. _Sam would want me to. I'll make Sam proud._

"That's very sweet, Dean." Alastair had returned, and Dean stiffened immediately, defiantly raising his eyes to meet the dead, empty ones in front of him. "It really is. But I think I'll side with the part of you that hates yourself more than you hate me. It's really not worth the effort to say no." He paused in front of him, knife drawn once more, deciding which part of Dean to slice first. He dropped it suddenly to his side. "How are you feeling, by the way, Dean?"

 _Again with the false sympathy,_ thought Dean. _Always with the false sympathy._

"Fan-fucking-tastic, thanks for asking," he retorted, face scrunching up in annoyance.

Alastair smirked. "Still with the lies," he tossed back at him. "Always with the lies. I'd have thought you would have learned your lesson by now." Dean's breath quickened, fear taking over as he fought for control. But Alastair let his lie pass this time.

Again Alastair surveyed his victim. "Oh, Dean," he tutted disapprovingly. "You really should keep these clean." He prodded his knife into a festering wound at Dean's side as he yelped.

"Oh, blow me." Alastair was getting on his last nerve. He was so damn feverish, and hungry, and just _everything,_ and bantering with Alastair was at the very bottom of his priority list.

"You know," mused the demon, "You have quite the filthy mouth for someone they call the Righteous Man." He drew his blade up to the gash in Dean's shoulder. Yes, that would be a lovely place to start.

Dean blinked in confusion, trying to keep an eye on both the knife and the demon. "Who the fuck calls me the Righteous Man?" _What does that even mean?_

A smile tugged at the corner of Alastair's lips. "Oh, no one important."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he growled. "Either quit being vague or just fucking start already." The buildup was almost as bad as the torture itself.

"Love our little talks, Dean, I truly do." He set his knife at the corner of the pussing mass on his shoulder. "But you're right," he conceded. "And these sores really do need to go. They look awful, Dean."

He carved in, slicing deep into his flesh, into the tense muscles below, slowly edging deeper, from the top of the wound to the bottom. Dean grit his teeth as hard as he could, groans of pure agony unable to be contained. His whole body shivered, bucking out of control when the knife hit bone. There was a ringing in his ears from the intensity of the pain. Through the involuntary tears that clouded his vision, he could see Alastair's twisted grin. The fucker was getting off on this. "Fuck you," Dean grunted.

Alastair merely fluttered his eyes to meet Dean's, casually tossing away the hunk of flesh he'd just removed.

"Oh, wait 'til after I've removed the rest of these," he taunted, waving his knife vaguely at the other open sores. "Then tell me how you _really_ feel." Dean's eyes bore into him with pure hate and anguish.

Ever true to his word, Alastair carved Dean's wounds out, leaving fresh, deeper, and heavily bleeding ones in his wake.

 _For Sam,_ he thought with each slice, trying to focus on something else, _anything_ else. _You're Dean Fucking Winchester, you can take it._ He squeezed his eyes shut. _You'd take on anything for Sam, so take this for him._ And so he did.


	5. The Fires

**We'll Let The Fires Just Bathe Us**

 **"First, the thin outer layers of skin fry and begin to peel off as the flames dance across their surface."**

It was finally Dean's turn to carve.

Alastair was before him on the rack that he'd been on moments before. Fear penetrated the demon's entire being. Dean tilted his head at the curious thing before him. He didn't think Alastair _could_ feel fear, but here he was, shaking as Dean narrowed his eyes. Dean inspected the knife in his hand. It wasn't Alastair, but had rather odd markings covering the hilt and blade, the jagged edges on one side reflecting the dark green of his eyes. He blinked in confusion as he realized he was holding the blade Ruby had given him and his brother. How did it get here? He'd taken nothing but his shredded clothing to hell. It wasn't worth much contemplation, however. He had what he wanted: a demon-killing blade in his hand and Alastair before him whimpering like a bitch. What he _needed_ , though, was some holy water. That'd really amp things up to a new level.

 **"A human limb burns a little like a tree branch."**

Suddenly beside him, a bucket filled with said liquid appeared. "Huh," Dean wondered, half amused, half wary of his luck. Best not to question a good thing, however, so he dipped the knife in as his blank stare caught Alastair's terrified one. Slowly, with a hatred that Dean had never felt before, he sank the knife inbetween the ribs of his victim. He wanted to savor the smell of the iron in his blood, but for some reason he couldn't smell anything.

But something was wrong. As the knife sank deeper, a sharp pain jabbed his own ribs. He grabbed his side, feeling for the cause of the discomfort. Nothing was there. His brows furrowed as the pain faded and was gone. Unnerved, but unwilling to cease his retribution on Alastair, he yanked the blade out, crying out in unison as the pain struck him again.

"What the fuck?" But Alastair's eyes were closed and his agonized expression revealed nothing.

 **"Then, after around 5 minutes, the thicker dermal layer of skin shrinks and begins to split, allowing the underlying yellow fat to leak out."**

Dean breathed deeply, trying to recover. He couldn't stop now, not when he had this rare opportunity gift-wrapped for him. _Syringe,_ he thought, and a moment later, one appeared in his hand. He wished he could smell that sanitation smell he'd always experienced with doctors and needles, so he could connect that with torturing Alastair, but that pleasure was stripped of him. He moved past his disappointment and grinned as he filled the syringe with holy water. Reveled in the pleas from Alastair to reconsider, _Not that, anything but that._ Felt a deep satisfaction as the demon cried out as the holy water coursed through his veins. But Dean started to cringe again as a fire built up in his right arm, the same arm he'd stuck Alastair with. He groaned as it traveled through his blood. Looking up to watch Alastair, he did a double take. It was no longer Alastair looking back at him, but Dean himself.

"Well don't stop now," the tortured Dean taunted, looking up at him with black eyes.

Dean took a step back in horror. This couldn't be happening. Not yet. He grabbed the bucket of holy water in his frustration and anger and tossed the contents onto what he would inevitably become.

 **"That's when the fire gets most interesting."**

Dean awoke in a haze as something cold and wet splashed his face, vaguely recalling the dream he'd just had. Slowly he roused, a familiar, oddly comforting scent surrounding him as he entered his living nightmare. _Okay, this is real_ , he rationed. _I'm not a demon. Alastair hasn't broken me yet._ He fluttered his eyes open, but shut them tight moments later as the liquid that'd been splashed on him caused them discomfort.

"Son of a _bitch,_ that burns," he exclaimed, moving to rub whatever was bothering his eyes away, only to be reminded that he was still shackled to the rack. He squinted hard, willing the substance to leak from his eyes. He blinked as progress was made, searching for the cause. Alastair. Of fucking course.

"Oh. It's you again. Well that's just great," he sassed. "You are exactly who I want to wake up to in the morning."

Alastair said nothing, but flashed his devilish grin as he tossed another bucket onto his chest. Dean inhaled again, trying to recognize the scent, watching it stream down his legs and pool at his feet.

"What, no banter today?" prompted Dean. "That's, like, my favorite part."

Alastair walked away, appearing moments later toting a full length mirror. The demon placed it before him and Dean was able to see his entire, pitiful excuse for a reflection. He was nothing but bruises and scars. He saw his eyes widen in the mirror as he recognized the smell.

"Gas - Is that _gasoline_!?" he cried out in panic.

A blue flame came forth from Alastair's pointer finger as he gave him a wicked grin.

"No. Alastair, don't do this. Please don't do this. Please! Anything but this," but his pleas fell on deaf ears. "Oh God, no. No, no no no please. _Mom_. Just don't, just don't. You can't do this," he sobbed. Dean was breathing heavily, trying to control the sheer terror that was overcoming him. Alastair waited ever so patiently as he came down from his panic. "Do it," Dean gritted. "Just fucking do it!"

 **"Body fat can make a good fuel source, but it needs material such as clothing [...] to act as a wick."**

Alastair, ever eager to accept those kinds of demands from Dean, blew at the flame on his finger, catching the arm of Dean's shirt on fire.

The flames engulfed him almost immediately, dancing along his skin as as it singed off his hair. He watched in the mirror as his skin reddened, then bubbled up and burst. _Second degree burns._ A deep, unavoidable groan began deep in the pit of his stomach and forced it's way out of his mouth, causing Dean to choke as the flames that played on his stubble skipped down his throat. He could see that he was quickly moving from third degree burns to deeper, sub-dermal fourth degree ones, but his nerves had not been blessed with the sweet release of dying.

 **"The body can sustain its own fire for around 7 hours."**

 _I can't do this Sam. Not this._ He wanted nothing else but to end his suffering. He coughed and heaved as smoke filled his lungs, the smell of gasoline replaced by burning flesh. Tears that streamed out immediately hissed and evaporated in the heat.

But there was no stopping this now even if he wanted to, his throat burning within him. _Sam, please,_ he pleaded, as though his brother could hear, could put an end to all this. A demon had taken their mother from them in this way, her body held on the ceiling as she watched Yellow-Eyes bleed into her baby boy's mouth. She'd burst into flames as her husband watched, helpless to do anything. That night had ended Dean's childhood as he felt the warmth of the fire as his father shoved Sam into his arms and ordered him to take him outside as fast as he could. As his agony continued, he could only hope his mother had died quickly, because this? This was worse than any goddamn thing he'd ever felt, even with all the creative techniques Alastair used against him. He watched helplessly as his flesh shrank and peeled off. As before, just when an end to his misery seemed in sight, his body regenerated and the fires, refusing to die, began to ravage him over and over again.

A new mental torment began as he realized Sam, if he was still alive, was completely alone. His mother. His father. His brother. All dead, all had left him alone in the world. Dean couldn't protect him from the countless evils he was bound to encounter. Sam no longer had anyone to rely on, not just for backup in a hunt, but to love him unconditionally.

And that was worse than any torture Dean could dream of, even bathing in fire.

Sources :

Bolded quotes: https//article/185067-Body-burners-The-forensics-of-fire

Title: Mama, My Chemical Romance


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